


Comfort

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [24]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Homosexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Child Abuse, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9175108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: I have just had Sherlock Holmes in my lap, and I adored it.Doctor Watson’s dispatch box contains some pieces written as reflections; as memories. And there are others, such as this one, penned in the midst of the swirl of emotions that the detective evoked in him.





	

What on earth have I just done? Am I going mad? I cannot believe my own behaviour. I can barely write this. But there is no denying it.  
  
I have just had Sherlock Holmes in my lap, and I adored it.  
  
How can I explain this? I am not entirely sure what has happened, or how it happened. It is so unlikely that I must write it down now or tomorrow I will not believe that it did happen.  
  
We had just gotten back in our rooms, having resolved a case involving a decidedly unhappy family. Instead of being exulted by his success, as he usually is, Sherlock was restless and disturbed and could not settle down. I failed to convince him to eat anything. Mrs. Hudson had made a pigeon pie that was simply delicious and served to us piping hot, but after she cleared away the plates (she has left the pie on the sideboard, obviously hoping that her overly-thin tenant would eventually have some), I settled in my armchair by the fire and turned my attention to him.  
  
He was perched in his favourite chair across from me, his long legs drawn up under his chin, his arms clasped tightly around them. His expression was anguished.  
  
“Sherlock, whatever is the matter? Why are you so distressed?” I inquired.  
  
“I just don’t understand it,” he tried to explain. “Why does it matter so much?”  
  
“Why does _what_ matter so much?” I had no idea to what he referring.  
  
“I am trying to understand why people put such great value on some things.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Such as that coronet (he was referring to the jewelled object that had caused so much turmoil in the family we had just made the acquaintance of). Such as jewels in general. How odd it is that some elements taken from the ground are considered special simply because they exist. They serve no useful purpose. Gold and silver, of course, are useful in many ways, as are diamonds and other of the hardest gemstones, but something like an opal, which is exceedingly easy to damage, is valued simply because it is rare. It seems somewhat circuitous. An opal is considered valuable because it does nothing of value.”  
  
“I do understand your distaste for illogical things, my dear friend, but you are much more perturbed than that observation warrants. It is something else that has you upset.”  
  
“No, it _is_ that,” he insisted; I watched him tighten his hold on his legs. “It’s that crimes were committed—a family was torn apart—and all for the sake of some particular elements being put into a particular arrangement. You could arrange… I don’t know… lumps of coal on the brim of a hat—and it is nearly worthless, but if you toss sapphires into the fire and place a ring of gold on your head, you would soon be numb with cold.” He sighed.  
  
“That is very philosophical of you,” I commented quietly.  
  
“And yet those seemingly useless things have caused a family to be torn apart—lying to one another; subterfuge; cruelty. And for what? Jewels? Money? Does money really matter so much that it turns brother against brother; children against parents?”  
  
“Is that what is so upsetting? That greed led family members to lie? To commit a crime?”  
  
He nodded, and then I became greatly alarmed when he began to rock himself—exactly as a small child, bereft of any other comfort, does. And perhaps this is what caused me to do what I did. I cannot think of any other explanation. “Come over here,” I invited, spreading my arms wide.  
  
“What?” The rocking did not cease or even slow; it was apparent that he was completely unaware of what he was doing.  
  
“Come over here,” I repeated.  
  
Without taking his eyes off me, he slowly let first one leg and then the other slide to the floor. He rose and approached me cautiously; finally standing in front of me.  
  
“Sit here with me,” I invited—I honestly had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth until it did.  
  
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” His anguished expression was superseded by one of perplexity and some alarm. I am not surprised. I have no idea where any of this came from. I should have been feeling alarmed myself. I should be feeling alarmed now, but even as I write this, I cannot describe quite what I was experiencing.   
  
I plunged ahead. “I mean sit here with me in my chair,” I explained.  
  
“There is hardly room for both of us,” he demurred, purposely mistaking my intent. “If you wish us to sit together, should we not avail ourselves of the settee?”  
  
“That is not my intention at all, and you know it,” I shot back. Now that I had truly committed to my proposal, I was quite clear at least within myself—I knew what I wanted. “Come sit here on my lap.”  
  
“John… are you quite well?” He glanced briefly at the bell pull, obviously wishing to summon assistance—or interference.  
  
“I am perfectly fine,” I assured him, “but you are not. You are distressed and feeling vulnerable.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, I wish to comfort you, and I believe that you will feel much calmer—and not quite so alone—if you just sit with me for a bit.” He considered this. I had chosen my words carefully. When he had confessed that he was distressed more by the idea that a family could be torn apart by greed and subterfuge, I recalled what little he has told me of his own family. It could hardly have been a comfort to be reminded of his childhood. “Just come sit with me for a bit and we will discuss the situation.”  
  
“You mean… actually sit…” He was now staring down at the carpet.  
  
“Yes, I mean actually sit here in my lap so that we may talk.” As I pen these words, I am once again feeling rather odd about the whole thing. I still have no idea what possessed me, but possess me it did, and I was determined to have him in my chair with me.  
  
“But… your leg…” he stammered. I was beginning to convince him.  
  
“You are so slight I will hardly feel it,” I assured him, quite honestly. “Come, now. I promise it will calm you.”  
  
“If you say so, John,” he acquiesced. And my heart even now leaps at the memory—as he hesitantly—so hesitantly—lowered himself, and I found that I was correct in that his weight was negligible. I gently arranged him so that his head rested on my good shoulder and I wrapped my arms around his slight frame. To my great surprise, I felt him tentatively do the same to me and then, with a sigh of exhaustion, he relaxed against my chest.  
  
It felt marvellous. It still feels marvellous as I write this—his slight weight across my legs; his chest so thin that my arms wrapped completely around him. I could feel his breath against my neck. He was cold; he is almost always cold.  
  
I patted his bony back. “There,” I whispered. “Isn’t that better?”  
  
“It is… but I do not understand why.”  
  
I pressed my lips together to avoid laughing—does the man ever encounter anything that he does not question? “It probably has something to do with warmth, or maybe feeling another’s heartbeat or breathing—nearly all creatures gain comfort from close contact with another,” I answered glibly. Why did it feel so good? I cannot think of a better explanation now.  
  
“Do they?” he demanded.  
  
“Well, yes, of course. That is why sometimes simply holding a crying baby close—against your chest—comforts and quiets them.”  
  
“I have no empirical knowledge of infants,” he reported gravely (I really did laugh at this), “but I do know that cats and dogs enjoy closeness such as this. Mrs. Hudson’s cat purrs when she is curled up on her lap.”  
  
“Yes, she does (I am surprised that he has noticed), and this is exactly the same thing.”  
  
“But I am not a cat, and you are not Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
“No…” I was laughing still, although quietly. I did not want him to think that I was teasing him. “How observant of you.”  
  
And the he added something so insightful that I was brought back to my senses immediately.   
  
“This is one of those things I should not share outside of our rooms,” he stated. “At least, it seems to be.”  
  
“Whatever are you referring to?” I asked, becoming immediately sober—I already knew the answer.  
  
“Those things—those behaviours of ours—the way you treat my headaches, and my illnesses, and how we sometimes attire ourselves when we are alone—those are not typical behaviours for most men sharing diggings, are they?”  
  
I hadn’t realised that he had noticed. “No, they are not,” I admitted. “We share a rather bohemian lifestyle, you and I, and there is a candour that we enjoy that is not often expressed between friends.” This was rather an understatement of mine, and he nearly broke my heart with his next question.  
  
“Is it a wicked thing?” he asked hesitantly. It was so rare that he was so unsure of himself. And that word—my heart sinks even now. I had to respond to him, though; I had to assure him that he and I were no more wicked than Mrs. Hudson and her cat. I considered my words carefully before replying.  
  
“No, it is not a wicked thing, but it is a _private_ one—something that only you and I need to know about. Like our other activities.”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson knows.”  
  
I reflected on that then and more now. The poor woman certainly knows about our untidy-bordering-on-indecent attire. She knows that I use gentle massage on my friend’s head when he is in pain. She knows how intimate we must be when I am treating him for illness or injury.  
  
Does she know that I often stand far more closely than is necessary to Sherlock? Does she realise that both of us touch the other’s hands and arms and even faces far more often than what might be considered decent? That we press our legs together when seated in a hansom?  
  
She cannot possibly know what a thrill it always is to me when Sherlock grasps my wrist or arm; when he puts his lips so close to whisper to me that they sometimes brush my ear.  
  
As I contemplated these things (and I am certainly at this moment contemplating them again), I began—quite unconsciously—to rub Sherlock’s back in slow circles. “Perhaps she knows some things,” I eventually commented. “How are you feeling?” I asked, mainly to change the direction my thoughts had taken.  
  
“That feels very nice,” he admitted shyly. “You were correct. I was feeling agitated earlier, but now I am quite calm.”  
  
“I’m glad of that,” I replied, honestly. I am still relieved that my rather daft impulse was working. “I have never seen you quite so upset over a case.”  
  
“I am sorry, John.” His apology startled and alarmed me.  
  
“No, Sherlock, I did not mean that as a criticism. It is perfectly fine.” I continued rubbing his thin back (I could teach an anatomy lesson using him instead of a cadaver—I could name every bone—he really needs feeding up).  
  
“I… did not mean to be so vocal about my… I try not to be...” he attempted to explain himself, and I was taken aback by his admission.  
  
“My dear friend, I sometimes cannot fathom you. You always seem undisturbed by the horrendous acts of violence and greed you encounter in your cases, but I know now that that is not the truth. You feel these things quite deeply. Why do you think you need to act so coolly?”  
  
“John, what would you think if upon the sight of a victim of strangulation, the constable at the scene suddenly fainted or began to weep?”  
  
“I would think that he was clearly not suited to his line of work… oh,” I interrupted myself. I really can be quite dense sometimes. “I understand. That does make sense, but from now on, when you are disturbed by anything, once we are in private, will you please tell me what is distressing you and ask for some comfort?”  
  
“Will the comfort always be like this?” he sighed in my ear.  
  
“It will be whatever you wish it to be,” I promised. “Whatever you need, I will gladly offer.”  
  
“Thank you, John.”  
  
And now that I have written all of this I still cannot explain to myself the reason I offered him my lap in the first place.  
  
The truth is that I do not truly understand it myself. I do not associate it with any particular or general memory of my own childhood. My mother might have held me in her lap when I was very young, but I have no specific recall of it, and my father most certainly never indulged either of us boys in such a way.  
  
I strongly suspect that Sherlock was never indulged in that manner by anyone—ever.  
  
But here we are—and I cannot even now completely believe that I, a grown man, welcomed another grown man into my arms in such a manner.  
  
Whatever the reason, I cannot deny that it felt marvellous.  
  
  
  



End file.
